


Catching Up

by syrupfactory



Series: Ineffably Ever After [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comfort Sex, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Far Future, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, Thirsty Crowley (Good Omens), Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: It's a lovely winter day in the 31st century, and the husbands have been happily married for over a thousand years. There's just one problem: Thanks to a temporary forgetting potion, the last thing Crowley can remember is sitting at a bus stop all the way back in 2019. Aziraphale tries to help him catch up as gently as possible while they wait for his memories to return.This takes place after my previous future fic, but can be read as a stand-alone!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Ever After [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586422
Comments: 33
Kudos: 281





	Catching Up

**Author's Note:**

> Updated 3/29/2020 with a new scene!

Crowley is coughing. That’s the first thing he knows for sure. Some sort of blue dust is clouding the air, and he’s coughing and fanning it away from his face. 

“Ah, shit,” comes an unfamiliar voice. “That was a lot.”

“I … oh, God,” says another. “What should we—what should we do?”

With the air clear, Crowley finds a broken glass bottle at his feet. On shelves around him are more bottles in various sizes. He doesn’t recognize the room, or the two people in front of him, in the least.

“Where the fuck am I?” he says. “Who are you?”

The one on the right, a woman with colorful hair, glances nervously at the man beside her. “I’ll call Aziraphale.”

With that, she’s gone, and Crowley is only more confused. “You two know Aziraphale? Is he in trouble?”

The man, who Crowley realizes belatedly is wearing a priest’s collar, holds up his hands. “No one is in trouble. You’re going to be fine. You’re in an occult shop, and you’ve just … accidentally inhaled a potion that’s leaving you a bit disoriented.”

“Potion? What kind of bollocks— Are you a fucking priest?”

“Oh, my…” the man mutters. 

Crowley looks down, then, at his own clothing, and further bewilderment follows: He’s wearing an outfit he’s certain he’s never seen before, his nails are painted black, and his hair is longer than it’s been since ... the 1600s or so.

“What the _heaven_ is going—” 

Just then, the woman returns, and Aziraphale appears from behind her. He’s dressed a bit strangely, as well, wearing a new gray jacket and matching trousers. But it’s good to see a familiar face. 

“Aziraphale!”

He comes forward and, oddly enough, takes Crowley by the hands. Both hands. The other people make a timid retreat. 

“Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale asks. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I … um …” 

It takes him a moment to sort it out. What _is_ the last thing he remembers? There was the missing AntiChrist, the bookshop fire, the standoff at Tadfield… 

“Ah, I’ve got it. We were waiting for a bus. Back to London. Why can’t I remember … did we get _on_ the bus?”

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale mutters. “You’ve gone back farther than I thought. Well, alright.”

“What are you talking about? Where are we? Why are you dressed like that? Why is my hair so long?”

“Crowley, listen. It’s alright. You’ve been exposed to an amnesia powder and lost … a significant amount of time. That’s why your memory stops so abruptly. But it’s only temporary. You’re going to be fine.”

Crowley feels a pit in his stomach. “How much time?”

“Let me take you home—”

“How much time, Aziraphale? What _year_ is this?”

He asks the second question as a joke, because surely it’s not _that_ long? But Aziraphale looks oddly sheepish. 

“Crowley, it’s 3034.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not. I’m being completely honest with you.”

“Are you telling me I’ve lost a thousand— _more_ than a thousand years?!”

“So it would seem.”

Crowley can’t think of anything else to say. He looks down again, at the broken bottle, now empty, the blue powder having evaporated. 

“Let me take you home, dear. It … well, I suppose it won’t feel much like home to you. But you can be comfortable there while we wait this out, alright?”

Aziraphale is speaking so sweetly, so calmly, in a way that Crowley has never heard before. The only way he can reply is to shrug and nod, because why not? They join hands again, and Aziraphale pops them to a new place. 

///

The two of them appear in their living room, and Aziraphale is trying to decide how best to ease Crowley into what will feel like a wholly unfamiliar setting. He gives him a moment to look around before he speaks—Crowley’s confused gaze lingers on the snowy beach outside the large rear window of their cottage.

“We’re in the South Downs, on the coast. This is home.”

“Home?” Crowley asks. “Whose home?”

He turns the opposite way, then, and gives a curious glance to the large painting of a nebula hanging on their living room wall. It’s his own work, but Aziraphale decides it’s too soon to mention that—Crowley only took up painting a few centuries ago.

“Why don’t … why don’t you come sit with me, dear?” Aziraphale tries, attempting to guide him toward the sofa. 

“What? No, just tell me what’s going on!”

“Crowley, just sit, and then I’ll explain ev—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Crowley cries in frustration, leaping away from Aziraphale’s touch. “I didn’t break both legs!”

“No, you most certainly did not,” Aziraphale replies in a wholly new tone of voice. “If you had, I’d have been able to _heal_ you already. But instead, you accidentally spilled an entire bottle of forgetting potion in a witch friend's occult supply store, so you’re stuck like this for a while.”

Crowley freezes, then, looking no less confused. “Catch me up, then. Please.”

Aziraphale takes a breath. Surely full honesty is the best course here. 

“Remember what you said to me at that bus stop? That we were on our own side, yes?”

Crowley nods. 

“Well, as it turns out, you were completely right about that. We both live here, Crowley. Together. We have for nearly a millennium, now.”

Crowley swallows, glancing around the room again. “So, we’re … housemates, then?”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale says, trying his best to fight his smile and failing. “We’re married. I’m your husband.”

At the word, Crowley’s gaze drops to the floor and he attempts to run a hand through his hair, but he runs into a tangle in his curls and has to awkwardly shake it free.

“ _M_ _arried_?” he asks, and the way he says it stings a tiny bit. “You’re joking.”

“No,” Aziraphale says warmly. “I wouldn’t joke about this. Look at your left hand.”

Crowley does as instructed and gives his wedding ring a curious glance. 

“I have one just like it,” Aziraphale goes on. “It was a lovely spring day in Regent’s Park. In 2020. We exchanged the rings and then had a nice lunch… Take it off, have a look inside.”

Wordlessly, Crowley removes the ring and squints as he peers inside the band, where he’ll see the inscription that reads _Aziraphale_. Without meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, he returns it to his finger. 

“This … this has to be a dream,” Crowley mutters. “I’m asleep on the bus, s’what this is.”

“I can assure you that you’re not, although I agree that it’s surreal, certainly, even after all this time. To have ended up here. To be free. To love each other as we always wanted but never spoke of.”

They way Crowley looks at him, then, appears so deeply pained that Aziraphale steps forward to rub his shoulder on pure instinct. He’d like to embrace him, but that’s probably too much.

“Don’t worry, alright? This is only temporary. It’ll wear off, and everything will make sense again. I’m sorry you’ve gone back so far, dear. That amount would have wiped a human’s mind completely, I suppose.”

Abruptly, Crowley hugs him. It’s a tight, urgent hug, and that does make sense—it’s the sort of hug Aziraphale might have liked to exchange after Tadfeild, too. He responds in kind, rubbing his husband’s back and silently holding him as long as he likes. Moving his hand up to stroke Crowley’s hair, his fingers snag another tangle.

“Oops, sorry,” he says. 

“Why is my hair this long again, anyway?” Crowley whines.

“Ah, that might be partly my fault, to be honest... Come sit, and I’ll comb it out for you.”

He moves over to the sofa and pats it, having miracled a wide-toothed comb into his hand. Crowley sits this time, giving him a curious glance as he does. Aziraphale gently works out the knots and then starts brushing in full, and Crowley relaxes into the sofa. Never fails.

After Aziraphale sets the comb aside, he leans down and pecks Crowley’s temple, as he always does, realizing a moment too late that he shouldn’t have—Crowley’s posture has gone rigid. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s a habit… Your hair should feel better now.”

“Thanks,” Crowley says in an oddly small voice.

Aziraphale moves around the sofa to sit beside him. Crowley’s whole face is flushed scarlet. 

“What a strange day this must b—” Aziraphale starts.

“Kiss me,” Crowley says, cutting him off. 

“What’s that?”

Crowley shifts to face him properly. “We’ve been married for a thousand years, right? So kiss me like you normally do.”

His sincerity is written on his still-rosy face. Aziraphale won’t make him ask a third time. 

“Alright,” he says, scooting closer. 

Aziraphale slips his arms around him, slowly, giving Crowley a moment to process, and then pulls him to his lips, kissing him in the very same way he does when they’re home on any evening after a long day. He hears a tiny whimper escape his husband and slides his hand up to the base of his neck, kissing him still, letting him feel. 

And then, without really intending to, he slips into another habit: He lets the full force of his love flow forth via their physical connection. Normally, Crowley’s love would respond in kind, but it’s a bit confused alongside him—present, but warped with doubt and fear. Still, Aziraphale’s love pours out of him like an endless sparkling stream of light.

Abruptly, Crowley gasps, and Aziraphale withdraws his touch. 

“I’m sorry, is that too much?”

“No,” Crowley says, panting. “No, don’t stop.”

He’s reaching for him, then, and Aziraphale pulls him close again, resuming with fervor. After some time, they end up just sitting quietly, foreheads resting together. Crowley doesn’t ask about the love stream, and Aziraphale knows he doesn’t need to explain. It’s wholly self-evident in every way; singularly his and very clearly _for_ Crowley. 

Their hands are still joined when they open their eyes.

“You _really_ married me?” Crowley asks with a smirk, bright eyes glassy.

Aziraphale smiles. “Mhmm. And it was _your_ idea.”

Crowley’s expression falls and he averts his gaze for a moment. Aziraphale can imagine that he misses his old sunglasses. 

“I love you,” he says, brow furrowed, voice pleading. “I always have. I must tell you that all the time.”

“You do,” Aziraphale soothes. “You do. And I tell you the same. I love you, darling.”

Crowley smiles, shaking his head. “What a thing to forget.”

That gives Aziraphale a new idea. “Let me … let me show you something, hmm?”

///

Crowley follows Aziraphale into an adjacent room, which turns out to have walls lined with bookshelves, a reading nook, and antique furniture. 

“This is your space,” he says, confident in that observation.

“My study, yes,” Aziraphale replies. “Look here.”

He’s gesturing above his secretary desk, where a collection of framed photos is displayed on the wall. When Crowley steps closer, he finds that they’re all pictures of the two of them, from their many years together as a couple. 

The earliest ones are most familiar, of course, with Crowley dressed in head-to-toe black and still sporting his dark glasses and short hair. The more recent—he’s guessing, by the way they’re arranged—ones are in stark contrast, with him dressed colorfully, long hair done up in a number of styles, always smiling with yellow eyes in full view, and nearly always leaning into his husband. 

In the center, there’s a photo of them embracing and kissing, and he feels heat rush to his cheeks just to see it. 

He turns, then, and looks at the angel standing next to him. His best friend, who he’s known for all his years on Earth. And now, apparently, his husband. Aziraphale’s smile is warm, and his features are more relaxed than they used to be—his face is so peaceful, so happy. Crowley still feels like he’s tumbled into Wonderland.

“Our lives now are far better than I ever dared hope for,” Aziraphale says, echoing Crowley’s thoughts. “I’m grateful every day for where we’ve ended up.”

Summoning every ounce of his courage and bearing in mind that this all feels perfectly normal to Aziraphale, Crowley moves to kiss him again. He’s bolder than before, and Aziraphale matches his enthusiasm without missing a beat. 

Crowley wants him, wants more than this, and feels his whole body blush to think of it. Aziraphale’s love is pouring into him again, with an overwhelming force, and he’s sure he can feel the same desire coursing through it. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, easing away. 

“Do we also have a bedroom, by chance?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says again, laughing in surprise. It’s his turn to be flustered.

“I only mean,” Crowley says, “if you want to… So do I.” 

Aziraphale gives him a sympathetic look. “It’s certainly not a matter of _not_ wanting. It’s just. Well, it would feel like the first time for you! And I remember … thousands of times.”

“Exactly! I’m jealous.”

Aziraphale gives him a look and then sighs. “Well, and there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Earlier today … in our work day at the archive—sorry, it’s a bit like a massive, futuristic library—I’m afraid you were, erm, a bit frustrated with me. That was unresolved before your, uh, incident.”

Crowley smirks. “Me? Frustrated with you? Finally, something sounds familiar.” 

He kisses him again, slipping his hands around Aziraphale’s waist, and can immediately feel that the desire has grown on both sides. Surely a minor unresolved disagreement wouldn’t interfere with intimacy… 

“Would something like that really carry over into now?” Crowley asks. “Was I being a dickhead about it?”

Aziraphale sighs again. “No, no, you weren’t. You were … well, you were right, honestly. You suggested relocating my private reading room at the archive, and you had good reasons for it. I just have a tendency to get set in my ways, as you know.”

“Well, we can sort all that out when I remember.”

Aziraphale nods. “We will.”

“Look,” Crowley goes on, starting to pace the room. “For me, it feels like I just time-traveled. I closed my eyes in one moment and then opened them a thousand-odd years later in the most ridiculously perfect version of the future I could have ever imagined, and we’re _married_ and we have this wonderful home and you’re so gorgeous and _happy_ … Do you just look around you every single day like ... _holy shit_?”

“Honestly, yes,” Aziraphale chuckles. “And I’m glad you think it’s perfect. I … wondered what you’d think of all this through your old eyes, if I’m being honest.”

“Are you _joking_?” 

Crowley doesn’t wait for an answer, instead rushing forward and pulling him to his lips again.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. “You _do_ want to, don’t you.”

“I did imagine it for a long time.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “You’ve _never_ told me that.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m pretty mortified by it.”

“You needn’t be,” Aziraphale says with a warm fondness. 

“It wasn’t _all the time_ , of course,” Crowley clarifies. “It wasn’t on my mind all the time. Mainly just when I hadn’t seen you in a long time. I’d start thinking all sorts of ridiculous thoughts.”

Aziraphale cups his cheek. “Not so ridiculous, it turns out.”

When they kiss this time, it’s like a firework. Aziraphale trails kisses down his neck, and Crowley’s desire blooms tenfold, leaving him dizzy and holding on for dear life.

“I feel you, darling,” comes Aziraphale’s kind voice in his ear. “I’m here. I’m taking you to bed now.”

///

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale leads his husband to their bedroom. He wasn’t expecting sex tonight after discovering that Crowley had lost so much time, but on the other hand, he empathizes with how he must feel starved for affection for that very same reason. And affection is something Aziraphale is always happy to give. The thought of it being Crowley’s first time all over again has his head spinning a bit, though, and he knows he’ll need to take a very careful approach.

Standing beside their bed, he pulls Crowley into a warm embrace, kissing him again. Crowley’s desire is still raging through their love connection. 

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to do?” Aziraphale asks.

“Anything… Whatever you like. Whatever we normally do.”

Aziraphale nods, having anticipated that answer. “Sit.”

Crowley drops to the edge of the bed, uncertain, and scoots back. Aziraphale follows, lowering himself on top of him, letting his hips drop to rest against Crowley’s and gently rocking against him. 

Crowley lets out a shaky gasp and fully reclines into the bed, holding Aziraphale’s waist. 

“Are you alright, dear? I know this is a lot to process.”

The answer comes as a quick nod, yellow eyes gazing up in firm resolve and jaw set tight. Aziraphale gives him a kind smile and presses a kiss to his cheek. He remembers what it was like in the early days of their romantic relationship, how so many millennia of tamped down feelings and so much buried yearning all finally broke free. Right now, Crowley is back there, in that mindset, his attraction exposed like a raw nerve. He’s missing a thousand years of relationship security, of learning to love openly and be loved in return, and what he needs now is reassurance and tenderness—to know he’s completely safe and so truly loved, in this vulnerable state.

Aziraphale snatches a pillow and places it behind Crowley’s head. “I’ll vanish our clothes now, if you like.”

Crowley nods again. “You … don’t have to ask. I want this.”

Aziraphale smiles and takes Crowley’s sweet face in both hands, kissing him and transferring their clothes over to a chair at once. He’ll certainly keep checking in, but he understands Crowley’s eagerness all too well—he hears the smallest whine escape him to feel their bodies so close, skin on skin, and he pulls him into his arms for a moment, taking it slow, giving him time to adjust to each new sensation. 

Lying beside him, he works him with his hand for a while, and Crowley arches his back and screws his eyes shut. 

“You’re so lovely, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers. “Do you want to finish like this?”

Crowley looks at him, panting. “How do we usually… I mean, most often?”

“Most of the time,” Aziraphale says, “I’m inside you.”

Crowley gasps and pulls him to his lips, his arousal burning bright enough to overwhelm their connection, to render both of them briefly speechless. 

When he’s regained his composure, Aziraphale helps Crowley arrange himself, knees drawn up, and readies him with some miraculous lubrication before he’s situated on top again. 

“Ready?”

Crowley nods, and this time he’s happy—auburn curls a glorious mess around his head and cheeks rosy beneath his bright eyes. 

Aziraphale is quickly in place and eases into a steady rhythm, much slower than their usual pace, trailing kisses along his jawline, enveloping him in love and adoration all the while. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” he breathes. 

“Yes,” comes the soft reply, “yes.”

When they’re finished, Crowley curls into him, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale holds him there and strokes his back in silence, hoping that he’s gone about all this the best way, hoping he’s given Crowley a blissful peace after a whirlwind of surprises. 

“Thank you,” Crowley whispers. 

“Ah, my darling. You needn’t thank me. Anything you want, alright? Anything. I’m here.”

In response to that, Crowley wraps his arms around him and squeezes tight for a moment before resettling. After some time, he’s fallen asleep, and Aziraphale takes great joy in knowing he feels relaxed and secure there in his arms. 

///

Crowley awakens to find himself alone in bed, the room still dim and quiet. He sits up and stretches his arms, not yet accustomed to the way his long hair falls around his shoulders.

He smiles to think of what it was like to be with Aziraphale, and then his mood deflates when he realizes he still can’t remember a bloody thing about the past thousand years. It was probably too much to hope that sleeping might reset his mind.

After crawling out of bed and finding his trousers, he pokes his head into the hallway and can hear Aziraphale’s voice somewhere nearby. 

“Quite out of sorts,” he’s saying. “A thousand years, actually… Unfortunately, no I’m completely serious. Oh, it’s no matter! I know it was an accident; please don’t worry. He’s adjusting fairly well, considering. Yes, I’m afraid we won’t make it tonight; I am sorry to miss it.”

Feeling a bit odd about the eavesdropping, Crowley slinks back into the bedroom and looks for a distraction. He settles on the large closet. 

Inside, he finds a well-organized walk-in space with attractive shelves and garments hung on either side—arranged, it seems, with one half for Aziraphale and the other for him. The concept of the two of them sharing a closet seems like it should strike him as absurd, but instead, it feels surprisingly _right_. Of course they ended up here, after all the bullshit was out of the way. Of course they’re still together; that’s how they’ve always been happiest. Of course they’ve made a home together, when for so long they’ve felt most at home in each other’s company.

Crowley smiles to see a collection of jackets in various neutral shades hanging with Aziraphale’s clothes. Some things never change. Just above there, on a small shelf with some knick-knacks, he finds a framed photo that makes him freeze in place. 

It’s him, Crowley, lying in bed shirtless with strands of messy hair partly obscuring his face—his tired eyes and parted lips give him an unmistakable post-coitus glow, and he doesn’t have to wonder why Aziraphale chose _this_ photo for his private space. 

“Randy bastard,” he mutters, turning around to see his side of things. 

Sure enough, there’s a framed picture of Aziraphale on his side, though it’s far more tame—clearly taken next to a window, with a soft glow of sunlight half-illuminating his face in a lovely way. It’s so different from the photo Aziraphale chose, but no less gorgeous and intimate. He’d certainly never tire of looking at it. 

Turning to his clothes, the selection is a little baffling—colorful, beaded fabrics abound and he apparently owns several heeled boots and an assortment of jewelry. It’s as though he’s looking through a stranger’s things.

Crowley turns to face a full-length mirror, to see this person who wears these things he doesn’t recognize. Stepping closer, he finds that his hair isn’t the only thing that’s changed—his face seems more relaxed, more rested than he can ever remember. And the smile creases on either side of his mouth have deepened. _Lots to laugh about, huh?_

He gives himself a sarcastic, cheesy smile, which falls into a skeptical glance. “Smug bastard.”

“Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice, back in the bedroom. 

Crowley turns just as his head pokes inside the closet. 

“Oh, there you are! Sorry, dear. I meant to slip back in before you woke up. Find anything interesting?”

Crowley steps closer to him. “Well ... that’s certainly an interesting photo of me you keep in here.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale chuckles. “It’s my favorite. You’re so lovely.”

They kiss. It’s increasingly comfortable, but no less surreal. 

“Did you cancel plans?” Crowley asks. “I overheard you talking to someone.”

Aziraphale nods. “We were meant to accompany a group of friends—Moira, who owns the occult shop, and her step-brother, Thomas, a priest, along with their partners—to the symphony tonight. But it’s no matter; we’ll go next time.”

“Maybe we could still go,” Crowley offers, gleaning that it’s something Aziraphale enjoys.

“Oh, well… My only concern is that there are likely to be quite a few people we know attending, and it would put us in the awkward position of explaining why you don’t recognize them.”

Crowley nods, sighing, and drops to sit on the cushioned bench in the center of the closet. “Right.”

“I know that face,” Aziraphale says, sitting beside him and rubbing his shoulder. “This isn’t your fault, Crowley. It’ll all be behind you soon enough.”

Crowley looks at him. Aziraphale gives him a small, reassuring smile. But he must be missing _his_ Crowley. The one he’s been married to for the last millennium. The happy one in the photos.

“This must be difficult for you, too,” Crowley says softly. “You … you deserve to have your husband here with you.”

Aziraphale gives him a look. “You _are_ my husband! You’ve just… Well, you’ve had a door shut in your mind. It will open again. Just give it time; it’s hardly been a full day. Maybe you’ll come away from this with a refreshed perspective, hmm?”

“Do you think I need that?” Crowley asks, curious. “Do you think I … take any of this for granted? Tell me, honestly.”

Aziraphale considers the question. 

“Honestly, no,” he says. “If anything, it’s been the opposite. I think you’ve a tendency to … to get up in your head and convince yourself you’re less than worthy of this life. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, of course. And, well, you’ve been doing much better in that regard lately. As far as I can see.”

Crowley can’t help but feel a little amused, both at how well Aziraphale knows him, and just how predictable his current mood apparently is. He leans into him and feels arms swiftly encircle him.

“I hope I’m half the husband you are.”

“You’re much better than that,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his back. “Three quarters, at least.”

Crowley laughs at that in surprise, and then he really laughs, letting his face drop to Aziraphale’s lap. He’s only just settled when his husband’s fingers have already started raking through his hair.

“Well then!”

“I’m only joking, of course,” Aziraphale goes on. “You are unwaveringly kind. And passionate. And admirably patient with me… You’re the most wonderful person I know, Crowley.”

///

Aziraphale decides it would do Crowley well to get out of the house for some fresh air and sunshine, so they bundle up for a trip into the city. He finds a simple ensemble for Crowley, dark trousers and a plain black overcoat, so that he won’t feel too unlike himself, and does up his hair for him, arranging it in a neat bun. He offers to find some old sunglasses, but when Crowley hears that he no longer makes a habit of wearing them, he shrugs off the need.

The finishing touches are a red scarf and matching earmuffs, and Aziraphale smiles at him, pleased. 

“There. You look wonderful.” 

He punctuates the statement by bumping their noses together and Crowley’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“Oh, sorry. Was that too much? Pay me no mind.”

He turns, then, to fetch his own coat, but he’s quickly whirled around and pulled to Crowley’s lips. It’s a nice surprise, and he’s happy to return the affection. 

“You’re never too much, alright?” Crowley says. “You’re the perfect amount. I’m just catching up.”

After Aziraphale is ready, they pop into London and take a stroll through a snowy park, walking arm in arm, enjoying hot cocoas as they go. The parks are different now, from the layout to the towering trees, but the way people enjoy them hasn’t changed. There is even an ice rink set up for the season, crowded with skaters. 

The two of them claim a bench nearby and watch the passers by for a while in silence. Crowley glances upward as an air vehicle passes through the sky.

“How are you liking our first date?” Aziraphale teases. 

Crowley glares at him but can’t fight a smile that stretches out his lips. 

“This isn’t our first date,” he scoffs. “Our first date was … oysters.”

“Ah, yes, indeed,” Aziraphale laughs, wrapping both arms around Crowley’s elbow and leaning into him. 

They’re quiet again for a few moments before Crowley speaks. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.”

Crowley sighs. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe this isn’t just an opportunity for me. Maybe it could be one for you, too. If there’s anything you’ve ever wanted to … ever wanted to tell me, or anything you wished were different, you could tell me now, with no awkwardness.”

Aziraphale considers that for a moment. Crowley shrugs. 

“I appreciate the idea,” Azirahale says. “But I don’t know that there’s anything to tell. I’d say we’re mostly open with one another.”

Crowley nods, glancing out at the snowy trees. Aziraphale keeps his gaze on him, reflecting on Crowley’s general mood since the incident. 

“Well, alright, here’s something,” Aziraphale says. 

He has Crowley’s full attention now. 

“Something I think far more often than I say, only because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But, Crowley, know that I’m very proud of you. All the time. You’re so thoughtful, generous, and kind. So eager to help, to do good. And if you doubt that about yourself at all, do consider that since you’ve lost your memories, your _greatest_ concern has been to ensure that you’re a good partner to me.”

Crowley smiles again at that, another closed smile that stretches out his lips and crinkles the skin around his eyes. Equal parts happy and mortified, perhaps. 

“I guess I do smile a lot,” Crowley mumbles at his lap. 

“What’s that?” 

Crowley shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He leans in to kiss him with freezing lips, and Aziraphale pulls him into an embrace.

“Ah, darling. What’s say we go home so I can warm you up properly?”

Crowley hums. “I like the sound of that.”

Aziraphale pops them back to the cottage, where he swiftly pulls Crowley into a much warmer embrace.

They fall into bed again, and Crowley seems more at ease this time, kissing and caressing with an urgent ferocity that Aziraphale recognizes all too well. 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes fluttering shut. 

Just for a moment, he lets himself forget what Crowley doesn’t remember. 

Afterward, they end up with Aziraphale resting against Crowley’s chest this time, Crowley stroking his back the same way. He’s a quick learner, this one. 

“Is this what we do all the time?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale smiles. “This? Well. Frequently.”

“Oh. I—oh... I only meant in general, we do whatever we like.”

Aziraphale laughs. “That, too.”

They lie in silence for a while, and Aziraphale’s thoughts drift to how they were once limited to a handful of secret rendez-vous per century, usually drowning their sorrows in a bottle of wine. That sparks an idea. 

“Here’s a thought,” Aziraphale says, looking up at him. “Why don’t we go have some wine, like the old days, and talk about the things you _do_ remember?”

It turns out to be just the thing. They fall into easy conversation about their shared memories, now able to openly admit how much they enjoyed each other’s company, and they’re laughing and drinking well into the night. 

///

The following afternoon, Crowley finds himself in Aziraphale’s personal office at the archive—which is, indeed, a bit like a massive futuristic library, where they both apparently work as head archivists. Whatever that means. Aziraphale needed to pop in on some business, and Crowley didn’t see any reason to stay behind.

Alone in the room, he surveys the bookshelves, the desk, and the well-worn sofas, and smiles to himself. A fitting callback to the cozy little bookshop that once stood on this very corner. 

Crowley flings himself into the cushioned window nook and promptly dozes off. He wakes, unsure of how much time has passed, to the sound of the door opening. 

But the person who enters is not Aziraphale—it’s the priest from the magic shop. 

“Oh,” he says, blinking, apparently also expecting an angel. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to barge in. Is Aziraphale here?”

Crowley shifts to face him. “He’s out there somewhere. Should be back in a while, if you’d like to wait.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” he says, taking a seat in an adjacent chair. “I must say, I’m terribly sorry for the incident at the shop.”

Crowley shrugs. “No matter... Thomas, isn’t it?”

He nods. “I’m surprised he’s left you all alone here. How long has he been away?”

Crowley shrugs again, failing to grasp why it matters. “Couple hours?”

“Hmm,” Thomas hums, reclining in his seat, apparently no less surprised but keeping further thoughts to himself. 

“So, you’re a priest?” 

“Indeed. An Anglican priest.”

“And a friend of Aziraphale’s.”

“Well,” Thomas says, looking thoughtful, “we did become acquainted first, yes, but I now consider both of you as friends. For which I’m thankful.”

His earnestness is mildly off-putting, but then, Crowley can imagine how easily he must have hit it off with Aziraphale at first. That gives him an idea. 

“Let me ask you something,” he starts. 

“Anything,” Thomas says. 

“From your point of view, am I a good partner to him?”

Thomas’s eyes go wide and a wave of nervous energy emanates from him.

“Honestly,” Crowley adds, ignoring the emotions. “I’m genuinely curious. I’m a blank slate, here. Could be the ideal time to learn something.”

Thomas blinks, giving Crowley an odd sort of look. His emotions now also hold a tinge of embarrassment, but despite that, he stands up and comes forward. 

“Since you’ve asked me, I’m going to be completely honest with you, as a friend,” he says. 

Intrigued, Crowley gives him a nod.

“The truth is,” Thomas goes on with a smile, “I don’t believe there are any two individuals in all the world who are more perfectly in love than the pair of you. _A good partner_ doesn’t begin to describe everything you are to him, or everything he is to you. Consider the fact that you’ve asked me at all—his happiness is always your first priority, as yours is his. Genuinely, I am _blessed_ to have witnessed what the two of you have together, and to have known you both during my short time on this planet. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

Crowley has absolutely no fucking idea how to respond to any of that, and sits frozen for a moment in the heavy silence. Just then, the door opens again and Aziraphale reappears.

“Crowley, darling, I’m so sorry—Oh! But I’m glad you’ve had Thomas to keep you company. I never meant to be away so long; it was one thing after another.” 

Thomas turns, moving toward Aziraphale’s desk. “I won’t occupy much of your time. I only wanted to tell you who turned up at the symphony last night.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks. 

Thomas shares his story, but Crowley doesn’t hear the rest of what he’s saying, because he’s too busy watching Aziraphale listen. First he’s playfully shocked, and then they’re both laughing, and Crowley hasn’t the slightest idea what’s funny, but it doesn’t matter at all because Aziraphale is so happy and that’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. 

When Thomas has gone, Aziraphale turns his attention to Crowley and smiles, slipping off his jacket and setting it neatly aside. He comes over, then, and Crowley abruptly feels a little dizzy with anticipation. 

With the glow of the window warming his features, Aziraphale runs his hands across Crowley’s thighs, then up and around his back to encircle his waist, pulling him into a slow kiss. It’s a good thing Crowley is already sitting down. 

“Hello, my love. Have you been miserably bored?”

It takes great mental effort for Crowley to remember words and work through the question his husband has asked. 

“N-no,” he manages. “Not at all. Interesting bloke.”

Aziraphale just smiles at that and resumes kissing him. After a short time apart, the touch is already electric, like they’re both starved for it. Crowley suppresses a whine when Aziraphale eases away again.

“Well, you have me all to yourself now. Is there anywhere else you’d like to go today? We could make a trip to the cinema or … have lunch?”

Crowley can’t tell if Aziraphale is deliberately being dense, but he decides he doesn’t care. 

“I'd rather like to continue what we're already doing. If that's on the menu?”

Aziraphale smiles again. “Of course it is.”

Crowley is swept up into his arms again, and Aziraphale is pouring jubilant love into him once more. It’s no wonder, Crowley reflects, that he wears colorful outfits now and has let his hair grow out and tends to happy plants. It’s no wonder when he gets to feel this wonderful every single day. He thinks about what the priest said, again, and gleans that his surprise at finding Crowley alone must have been because they’re normally inseparable. 

Perhaps by instinct or muscle memory, Crowley lets his legs fall open a bit wider, and Aziraphale doesn’t miss a beat—he settles against him so that their bodies are flush and their desires known.

“Have we ever,” Crowley asks as his husband trails kisses across his jaw, “ … in here?”

He’s not sure why he can’t say it, but Aziraphale takes his meaning, humming in reply. 

“Once or twice,” he replies. “Is that what you’d like to do now?”

Crowley’s voice betrays him and his answer comes out as an odd little whine, so he nods for emphasis. 

Aziraphale pulls him closer still, and Crowley is briefly overcome by the thought of turning around and letting Aziraphale have him right there against the window nook. But when he opens his eyes again, he sees that a cozy nest of blankets and pillows has appeared on the floor, and he lets his angel lead him there. 

It’s not long before their clothes are shed and their bodies are united, once again, and this perfect intimacy could never get old or trite. There could never be _enough_ , Crowley is certain. It’s surreal and urgent and far more wonderful than anything he ever imagined. 

Afterward, as they lie in the afterglow, Crowley can’t seem to stop looking at Aziraphale. It’s incredible to think that he’s missing so many memories of experiences like this beautiful moment. A thousand years of love and tenderness like he’d never dared to hope for. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley realizes he’s not sure what expression he was making. “I … appreciate you indulging me.”

At that, Aziraphale actually laughs. 

“Oh, my dear, I can assure you that I’m sharing the indulgence at every turn. In fact, there have been more than a few times when you’ve _indulged_ me by staying in bed for a few days at a time.” 

He punctuates that insane sentence with a playful wink, and it takes Crowley a solid minute to remember how to speak. 

When he does, he says, “You miss me?”

He didn’t mean to ask it so bluntly, but Aziraphale just gives him a kind smile. 

“In some ways, yes, but I’m enjoying your company as always,” Aziraphale says, reaching out to sweep a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his face. “If you had wanted to spend this time apart … that would have been difficult. I would have understood, of course, but then I would have really missed you.”

It hits Crowley, belatedly, that the thought of going off to sulk alone never even occurred to him. Not anymore.

“I’ve never _really_ wanted to be anywhere else,” Crowley says, copying Aziraphale’s gesture and running a hand over his blond curls. 

“Oh,” Azirapahle breathes, “nor have I.”

Just like that, they’re holding each other and kissing yet again, and there’s a renewed spark of desire from both directions. _A few days at a time,_ Aziraphale had said. 

“I’m really looking forward to remembering,” Crowley says softly. 

///

**_Two Days Later_**

Crowley is sitting in his studio, a small room filled with artwork he cannot remember creating, when the first whisper of a memory hits. 

At first, he doesn’t even register it as such—he just reaches to the side, over to the coaster on his table, as though he’s reaching for his cup of tea.

But there’s no cup. Why was he expecting one?

The table is covered in a mess of painting supplies, including a few papers he’s crumpled after attempting and failing to write himself a note. For when his memories return. Only, he hasn’t been able to decide on anything to say, so he ended up with a tangle of angry scribbles on the first and _don’t fuck this up_ on the second. 

Around him are his own paintings, most of them nebulae in various sizes and colors. They are striking, but when he looks to the easel and tries to place himself in the mindset of creation, there’s nothing. 

Except … tea. Yes. Aziraphale always brings him tea while he paints, that’s it. Is it a real memory, he wonders, grasping at it, or just something that makes logical sense?

Crowley closes his eyes. If the door is opening, more memories will follow. He just has to let them in. 

And then, as naturally as a leaf unfurling in morning sunlight, the full context comes to him: Aziraphale always brings him tea after he’s been painting for a while, to check in on him and his work, and it’s always the highlight of the hobby. But … there’s more. It’s not just when he paints; anytime they’ve been apart for a few hours, Aziraphale will appear with a drink to see if he wants company. And, most of the time, Crowley does. 

He smiles. This life is coming back to him. Trying to relax, to be patient, he sits back, regards his artwork, and clears his mind.

There are just a few more flashes, at first. A memory of the two of them dancing in the rain in Paris, again with no context. A memory of Crowley fixing supper. A memory of … yes, of painting. 

As the memories are unlocked, so to speak, they seem to gain momentum, with more and more pouring into his mind, faster than he can process them. It’s an odd experience, to have such a large chunk of his life rush into his mind all at once, as though he’s standing outside of time, letting a thousand years unfold in a single moment. 

One thing stands out from the rest: He’s been so, so happy here with Aziraphale. They both have. Happier than either of them ever thought possible. It was hard to believe with his mind wiped, but the truth of it is somehow even more incredible than he realized.

Finally, he can remember that bloody bus ride and how they’d come up with a plan—a plan to save each other after they’d saved the world. After that, it hadn’t taken too long for them to end up where they always wanted to be: together. 

He recalls how openly and easily Aziraphale loves him, now, never passing a day without pulling Crowley into his arms and petting his hair, telling him how he adores him. Crowley, too, has changed. He’s learned to cook for his husband. He takes him out for a night on the town regularly, to the symphony or dancing or a meal. The experiences might have once held little appeal for Crowley, but with Aziraphale beaming beside him, they’re great fun. The quiet evenings at home are even better, when they’re curled up on the sofa together, Crowley listening to Aziraphale read his favorite stories out loud, stroking Crowley’s back all the while. 

There’s something else, too: Without fail, Aziraphale always lights up when he sees him, even if Crowley has only been away for a few hours. He always misses him terribly when they’re apart for any considerable length of time and needs time together to restore him to his full happy glow. Crowley always thinks this must be lingering hurt from so many years of longing, always so close but out of reach. And now, he’ll have missed him the last few days; he’ll be hurting. He’ll need him. 

He’s up from his seat and hurrying for the door when he nearly collides with Aziraphale at the threshold. 

“Oh, my!” Azirapahle says. He’s holding a cup of tea. 

Crowley takes the tea and sets it aside, then pulls his husband into his arms. 

“Crowley?” comes Aizraphale’s voice, cautiously hopeful. 

“It’s me. I’m here. I remember now.”

Aziraphale relaxes into him and sighs. 

“You were so patient with me,” Crowley says, holding him. 

Aziraphale holds him closer for a moment and then pulls back just enough to look Crowley in the eyes and touch his cheek. 

“Ah, my darling,” he says. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They kiss, then, love flowing bright and jubilant in both directions. 

“I wasn’t frustrated, you know,” Crowley says, now able to remember their disagreement from the day of his potion incident. 

He had suggested moving Aziraphale’s private lounge at the archive, a room he keeps in the back of the lowest floor, situated with a personal collection of books and a few sofas, not unlike his old bookshop. Along with some other renovations, Crowley had the idea of moving it up, so that Aziraphale could enjoy a view of the new archive gardens outside, but Aziraphale had stubbornly protested—his current space was just fine, he’d insisted. Crowley had left on an errand to Moira’s store a few blocks over, intending to clear his head, which had come to pass a bit too literally... He'd also need to replace the potion bottle he clumsily knocked off the shelf. 

“I just … want to see you happiest. Wherever you like your reading room is perfectly well with me.”

Aziraphale smiles, eyes glistening. “I know… After you left, I realized that if I could see the garden every day, I would see the progress of the plants you grow there. That _would_ make me happy.”

Crowley pulls him into another tight embrace. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my dear. Welcome back.”

///


End file.
